Kitsune
by PhoenixFlame6
Summary: A discovery and a confession. Christine listens as Erik weaves a tale that runs through Persia, France, and places that the singer fears to tread. Who is the man who calls himself her teacher?
1. The Beginning of the End

**Kitsune**

**By:** Phoenix Flame

**Author's Note:** This plot bunny would simply not return to its hole. I am planning on it being only around three or four chapters. It's really just a side project from my other stories, namely _Pirates of the Tonkin Bay_ and _Resurgence_. Enjoy!

_**Part I – The Beginning of the End**_

Christine pictured him bent over his organ, his eyes shut in concentration while an arm occasionally snaked out to scribble a few notes before the harmony disappeared back into his memory. He had remained in his music room for the past several hours, leaving her with only reverberating organ keys for company. But she had a simple solution to the stifling ennui—she could explore.

Since days when dirt roads were always beneath her traveling feet, Christine was always a curious girl. Her curiosity, however, followed flighty whims. Fawn-like Christine merely looked at the world around her…except for the few things that caught her interest.

She had found a box, halfheartedly hidden away beside a burgundy sofa. It bore the distinct look of something that's owner had no idea what to do with. Kneeling down, she pulled off the cardboard lid. An inquisitive smile flitted across her face when it came off with ease. Christine reached in and pulled out whatever it was. To her surprise, it was a photograph.

The photo was dark, with less detail than a painting, but she could make out the wide stature of a house. A quaint thing, she thought, showing money but not extreme wealth. She flipped the picture around to see if it had a caption.

_ROUEN  
_

Someone had scrawled it in black ink. After setting the photograph down, she reached back into the box where several others remained. She sat down fully on the carpet, her skirts spread wide around as she looked squinted at the murky old photos. One was of the same house as before but this time two figures stood by the front door, both dark-haired and young. Both smiled. As she looked closer, she realized the woman's belly was thick with child. Christine could find no caption.

There were several more pictures in the box but none gave her any more clues to the couple's identity—a dog, a homely woman, a small garden, but never an answer. Her curiosity purred at the mystery.

The funereal sound of organ keys still drummed incessantly in her ears; Erik would not want to be disturbed, she knew. Yet it seemed she had found a way to entertain herself.

Again she reached into the box and this time pulled out another, much smaller box. The cherry wood gleamed despite its age, sealed with some craftsman's secret formula, while golden framing protected as well as made it more beautiful. For all purposes it resembled a jewelry box.

Finding a latch and pushing the lid open, Christine saw that her guess was correct. A glimmering trove of jewelry rested within, glittering with amethyst necklaces, silver bracelets, and pearl earrings. Everything shone with good craftsmanship but its beauty came from good taste rather than vast expense. The finest piece in the box caught her eye—a necklace wrought with silver that would rest across the collarbone of a well-dressed woman, its silver workings forming some Celtic symbol while three garnets were spaced along the metal, the crowning jewel in the center. She held the necklace almost reverently for a moment, watching as the dimmed lighting of the room caused the garnets to flush and send forth windows of red on her skin.

After several minutes she replaced it inside the box, wanting for all the world to put it on. Her hand strayed toon the box's rim. What harm could it do to try it on for just a moment? Erik would not know; he was still in the music room.

Making a girlish decision, she took the necklace and clumsily clasped it around her neck. The stubborn clasp fought her attempts to secure it, as if it preferred its dark solitude, alone with the pictures of its former wearer. Picking up one of the photographs again, she saw the necklace at the throat of the dark-haired woman.

The woman was like a dark fairy-queen in the shadows of an overhanging tree. Her eyes glittered beneath the glossy material of the paper, while the tilt of her high cheek caught the dappled light just right. In a contrary fashion her hair hung well past her shoulders, thick and sable. Her smile showed half her teeth.

The man beside her was milder, with autumn looks but little fierceness unlike his leonine mate. He seemed to type who would happily give his wife her jewelry, just as she seemed the type to wear it proudly, carelessly regardless of season or style.

But both were beautiful, and both appeared happy as they stood in front of their home.

_"Christine…"_

The voice jarred her from her thoughts. Twisting around, she expected to see his towering figure behind her. But no, he was not there. His voice came from the music room; he merely had a quality in his timbre to appear close at hand.

Hurriedly she returned the photographs and snapped the jewelry lid closed. After placing the box back into the larger box, she replaced the lid and struggled to her feet, her skirts twisting to return to their normal place.

Smoothing her rumpled dress, she made her way from the room and into the hallway that lead to the music room. The occasional, noncommittal tinkling of a piano key beckoned her closer. He had changed instruments.

The lights were dimmer inside the music room. Her teacher enjoyed the darkness, the exact opposite of Meg, who danced her best in the sunlight. But no sun shone here.

Christine opened the door to see Erik lounging sideways on the organ seat, his legs propped up as if the seat was a small sofa. He looked up as she entered and the light gleamed off his black mask. As much as she hated it, she knew it was a fine piece of craftsmanship. Along the top of the left cheekbone were three rubies secured in the leather. In the light from the doorway, they glittered.

"Ah, Christine." A hand waved her closer. "I had meant to give you your music lesson earlier, but I fear I lost track of the time."

Christine left the door open behind her. Gloomy light was depressing. She was about to answer him when suddenly his gaze narrowed.

"What is that at your throat?"

An involuntary gasp and her hand clutched at the necklace. She had forgotten to remove it!

"I found it," she started, feeling her words stalling in her throat, constricted by the silver chain. His eyes were so piercing! "Just in the box.I found it in the box! I was…curious."

Erik stood up and approached. She could have bolted and leapt out the door, but his tall form was soon an inch from hers. This close, she could see his waistcoat was dark green instead of black. Erik was so much taller than she was. When she looked up to meet his gaze, she realized that this close, his eyes were closer to light brown than the yellow luster they seemed to be. This close, she had no time to react as a hand settled around her neck.

After her heart almost exploded from her chest in shock, Christine realized that his hand merely rested there, a thumb stroking the silver metal.

"It looks beautiful on you," he finally said. "Keep it as a gift." His smooth voice carried a hitch, a slight catch that Christine noticed.

He turned back to the piano and began gathering the paper scattered across the instrument. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Christine's gaze darted once to his right forearm. It appeared bruised. _No, not quite…_ His voice interrupted her before she could think further.

"I will be with you in a moment."

The oddness in his voice remained, though she had no name for what it might be. The necklace felt heavier on her chest now, as if to show it took with far more strength than her to wear it. Reaching up with little thought she ran a thumb along the back of the metal. But then she felt something strange.

Undoing the clasp, she removed the necklace and studied the back. As she had thought, there was an engraving.

_Pour Madeline – Avec mon amour éternel – Charles_

The words raked through her memory. No, never had she heard these names before, or the words on the necklace. She had never seen the thing before today. But…

The fairy queen drifted into her mind, glittering eyes daring her to guess-- the leonine woman well into her pregnancy. The hesitant revelation was so timid in coming that it did little more than make her look up at Erik, carrying the stack of papers to a nearby desk. His movements were always quick and precise.

But Christine was a curious girl, a fawn who could never let a little thing slide past.

"Erik?"

"Yes?" he replied with little thought.

"What did you say your mother's name was?"

He smiled quizzically over his shoulder.

"Lilith, of course."

She paused a moment, wondering if she should continue.

"And what about your father's name?"

He looked at her for a second longer than before.

"Rociel, as I told you once before. You are in a curious mood today."

Christine felt a sick wave of dread roll down her throat. It took every ounce of willpower to ask her next question. But she had to.

"And where were you born?"

"_Marseille_." Once more his eyes were predatory. "You are _entirely_ too curious today."

Before she could gasp he sprang with vulpine speed. Yanking the necklace from her grasp he regarded the metal. Christine stood there, her hand still held as if the necklace remained. Then a sound sliced through the moment of terrible silence… she realized Erik had laughed.

If to reaffirm her assessment, he laughed again. The sound was horrifically different from his mellifluous tones—the smooth tenor was replaced by a high hyena bark, a wild laugh sharp and acerbic.

"To think!" he uttered in between gasps.

Christine realized he was shaking. Shaking in laughter.

"To think such as thing as this cheap necklace!" He held a hand to his stomach and continued to laugh. "How many years? Twenty, Thirty? And a piece of silver foils me!"

He regarded her with eyes that gleamed with a light of their own.

"Oh Christine, I can hide nothing from you."

A pitiable attempt at speech staggered past her lips. "Erik…"

Finally the man regained his composure. Straightening up, he looked at her with near-rabid intensity. When he spoke, there was no more laughter, only bitter irony.

"You see my dear, therein lies the problem. I am not Erik. Erik died thirty years ago."


	2. Between Heaven and Hell

**Kitsune**

--------------

_**Part II – Between Heaven and Hell**_

Her surprise was so immense that it took a languid eternity for her mind to comprehend what Erik had just said. Had her teacher confessed anything else it would not have caused her hands to tremble so. Her shock infected her tongue as well, for she managed no more than a stammer.

"Erik, what do you mean?"

Her teacher's mouth twisted in annoyance.

"I mean precisely as I say. Don't be slow, _cherie_."

"But you…"

He sighed and took her hand in his, his cool grip not providing the solace he intended. Christine resisted the urge to jerk her hand away. An ephemeral smile came to his mouth, not noticing, or not caring, that the woman in front of him desired nothing more than to bolt from the room and swim across the lake herself if only she would find the light again.

"I should not keep secrets from you, Christine. Would you like to know everything? I would tell you. Erik _would_ tell you, but he's dead." Another laugh, but closer to a chuckle.

Her heart hammering too thunderously below her collar, she could not speak speak. Unanswered, the tall man gestured to the door.

"Come. A piano bench is no place for such a story as mine. For this we need a sofa. I would not have my audience stiff-necked."

He led her from the darkness and back into the room she had come from. The room that had started this entire thing. She twisted away from the box that still remained next to the burgundy sofa. Yet even beyond her sight she could feel the secrets held within the box gloating at the result of her intrusion. Why must she be so curious!

Erik sat and draped an arm over the top of the sofa, twisted so that he rested in the corner between the sofa's arm and back. Half offered, half dragged, Christine soon sat as well, on the other side of the sofa. Her teacher appeared content.

"Now we are better situated. A story is best told when all are comfortable. I apologize for no roaring fire or wassail."

Christine fought to control her rapid breath as she settled into the feather-stuffed cushions.

"I first met Erik in Persia. Perhaps old Ahriman humored me…

"I was born in Marseilles—see, I can hardly lie to you. My mother was common, a former actress; my father was simple and always worked. My bearers were not the most exciting I fear. But Mother knew a man from the theater. He that taught me music. Your grandteacher, dearie. But with the notice of two eviction letters I left. I was young then, younger than you are now, I suppose. Do not worry though, I will not ask your age. That would be rude.

"When times were good I was a musician. When times were bad I had to resort to more creative means to feed myself. Life was always a difficult game but I made a good enough wager to Lady Luck it seems. I stayed alive, and I saw. Beauty far beyond your precious music speckles the world! Birds streak across the ground as fast as horses while two-horned unicorns gallop across the deserts. I grew up thinking music to be the pinnacle of art. Nay, had I but once seen a painting copied exactly from what I saw years ago, I would have cracked my violin over my knee.

"By the time I was nineteen I had found my way to Persia, running with a group of ruffians. Damn brigands, all of them. I hated them but there were amusing times. A favorite trick of theirs was to plunge down a hillside on horseback, shrieking and stabbing. I would gallop with them. What fun! Truly Christine, I may have loathed the country but there were parts that even made me happy to be forced into a life of banditry. But nothing stays."

-------------------------------

"Ready, Khareji?" The man's teeth were wolf-white against his swarthy face.

"I would be far more ready if I had a gun," he replied.

Khareji's horse sidestepped under him as his hands clenched on the reins. The swarthy man only laughed.

"Cocky _farangi_. You are lucky we even let a Westerner run with us. I could always have sold you off as some catamite."

The man twisted in his saddle and held a hand over his eyes to watch the caravan crawling by at the base of the steep hill. Khareji nudged his horse farther behind the rocky outcropping. Persian merchants were idiots when not in their stalls though—none would think to look up.

There were three large carts. Moving warehouses really. Beside them walked men on foot and horse. Khareji rubbed at his eyes. He hated the sun here. The horses and men were obvious but the heat twisted them into wavy figures like candle wax. Yet Mirza took it as an advantage—the sun distorted his thieves as well, creating a wave of attacking, galloping fury. He had earlier bet his second in command that half the caravan would flee before they reached the base of the hill. Khareji would wait and see.

"We're going."

"That was not a very long scouting," Khareji said testily.

The swarthy man laughed once more. Mirza always laughed, even as he ran someone through with his sword. Khareji had seen him do it once, to one who had tried to take more than was owed. Mirza cuffed any who tried to take exactly what they were owed, and killed anyone else. _Bastard._

Mirza pulled his sword halfway from its scabbard until it caught the light, flashing it once. Finally they were moving. The hot day was getting dust in his nose. When he killed and robbed, Khareji never noticed it.

From behind he heard the skittering of stones. Again Mirza flashed his blade, this time twice. Khareji knew only to ram his heels into his gelding and plunge down the hill as if Namtar had risen from the depths.

The horse launched itself down the slope, harried on by twenty others and war cries from their riders. Khareji leaned back, quelling the sensation of sliding over the horse's neck and onto the scraggly hill.

Heat blazed down, rippling through the air and working its distortions. It clung to his back and palms. Bitterly he thought what a bad thing it would be to lose his sword. Jerking it from its sheath the moment he was sure he was not going to be pitched from the horse, he brandished his blade like any good rogue. The galloping figures plowed past either side of him.

Like hell he would be some front-line martyr.

Shots rang out from behind. Mirza always attacked from hills. The shooters had clear shots and the chargers had all the momentum that came short of snapping their mounts' legs. And oh, it was a thrilling rush of life to ride down those slow merchants. Rifles blasted off a second wave of sulfur-reeking shots. It was a moment before he realized they were coming from the caravan.

_Oh hell. _

Instead of fleeing, the caravan guards dropped to their knees and returned the shots at the ragtag party moving too quickly to stop or retreat.

A dark horse in front of him went flipping headfirst and tumbling sideways. He would never be the horseman that could dodge around such obstacles. His mount sprang over it in one desperate leap, coming down in a jarring, shaking crash that almost went down too.

Khareji threw his weight backwards to steady the animal while trying to bury his hands in its mane. His sword was a disappearing flash behind him. In another second the shouts of battle became wails of terror as the bandits realized that this was obviously no caravan. But he had little time for reflection.

A force smashed into his shoulder, wrenching him sideways and tearing loose his desperate hold. Khareji had often wondered how a man could be shot off his horse with such power that both lost their balance. Yet there was no time to wonder now as the horse was still between his legs—and he was parallel to the ground.

When the fact hit him that he would be splattered under a horse and dragged to the bottom of the hill, his eyes torn out and his nose scraped off, Khareji did the only think that could possibly save him. He kicked like a lunatic ricocheting off a wall. The slick leather saddle offered little purchase to his boots but he heaved all the same. He hit the ground head first, a foot away from the falling animal. Any relief at surviving dimmed as he painfully rolled to the bottom of the hill.

His clothes were brown cotton. Would he be that easy to spot, sprawled in a semi-conscious heap, a rock digging into his bleeding cheek? The answer soon came when an iron vice clamped down onto a forearm and dragged him to his knees. It was no Mirza, ready to cuff him for falling off the horse, nor Jahan to eye him suspiciously and gesture at his misstep. The face he looked into was thick in the jaw and narrow in the nose.

"Rebels," the stranger growled.

"_Thieves._" Khareji spat blood.

A fist struck him across the temple. It did not matter. His tooth-scoured tongue would continue to bleed despite all manner of beatings. He moved a hand to his shoulder and attempted to feel where the wound was against the hot blood. He never found it. A boot kicked his forearm, sending him sprawling.

Standing over him, the man's visage pulled in lines that never moved. From this angle Khareji could see his military uniform.

"I thought that cache we killed off would be the last for awhile. Instead, more attacks on the Shah of Shahs. You shall be interrogated and executed." The man walked back to the first cart.

Khareji glanced around through bloodstained eyebrows. All the ruffians he ran with were dead or dying. Glancing higher, just under the sun and into the horizon, he realized that three had survived, and ran like dogs from a wolf pack. The gray stallion in front had belonged to Mirza.

A nearby click and he saw several Persians readying their rifles. Three shots later and the gray stallion went down._ Bastards_.

There was no honor amongst thieves. The notion was stupid. Had Mirza gotten away he would have doubtlessly formed a new gang and continued raiding, with more sense and caution. Captured comrades were best forgotten. _Such a simple thing. _Khareji hated him for it. Thieves and soldiers both, he hated them. The dirt and blood and sun were all he knew except for ragged fury. Until two iron rings snapped onto his wrists and a pair of iron-boned arms lifted him into the air. He fell briefly before crashing into the musty wood of a cart. With a certainty too pained to react to, Khareji dozed as the Persian guard walked him to his execution.

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"Hah, idiots, they thought we were rebels! Political enemies, how odd. It was not a song though, to be dragged to Tehran in chains and thrown in a dungeon. Most of the men I was with had the yellowness to die upon capture. Gutless fellows. I lived, but not for long. I managed to avoid an interrogation or trial by passing myself off as clueless to the language. Yet that did not save me from a cell or a quick sentence to the Shah's arena, to die by the hand of his newest dog. That was Erik, the dear boy."

His vulpine eyes sparkled behind the black mask. Christine remained as far to the other side of the sofa as she could. He only chuckled at her horror.

"You seem shocked." A chiding smile. "The world is a twisted place though, my dear. Not a simple triumph or tragedy like your beloved operas. Tragedies can become a moment of glory; triumphs die upon swords or pens. Aida would have found far worse than a quiet tomb had she been dragged to the Tehran dungeon. But I did not go there to die, at least not yet. First I would rot.

"You see… Erik was there. I clearly remember it, as our little meeting is the entire reason I sit here now, telling your pretty face why I am not who I am. I was sprawled out in a dungeon, dying inside from brackish water and soon to die all over from the man the guards leered would make my final moments a macabre prelude to the hell I would soon find myself in for attacking the soldiers of the Shah of Shahs. So when I met him, I was wonderfully underwhelmed.

"Erik stood tall when he entered my cell, all cape and robe.

"'_Vous êtes français?_'

"'_Oui._'

"To think, hailing from France actually helped me somewhere!"

He let out another wild hyena-laugh. His dark hair hung with a feral cut to his shoulders.

"Apparently after two weeks I had taken to snarling threats and profanities in my native tongue, enough so that one or two guards were curious as to what I said. From them Erik found that there was a Frenchman in Persia. Doing the cordial, pre-execution thing, he paid me a visit. Mayhap the little songbird was lonely. No, not you Christine. Erik was truly the lark, twittering out his story when I asked a few words. I will say his voice was my most prominent memory of him."

The smile on the man's mouth lost its sharpness while his gaze drifted. For just a moment Christine believed the man's self-congratulating smile was dreamy.

"'What is your name?'"

His tone shifted, sinking into a voice that strove to mimic a siren but could never compare. A frowned twisted his lips.

"'Aesma Daeva,' I said.

"He laughed then, a sound that…suffice to say, he saw my little joke. Woe unto me Christine, I cannot remember the joke. Fear girl, what happens when you age.

"'You see through me. My name is Hafaza.'

"'An ill-suited name for a rebel.'

"I had amused him. That was my only intention. I would say it worked well."

-------------------------------

Hafaza perched on a three-legged stool that toppled if he did not lean backwards. He saw no reason to offer the masked man a seat. Whatever manners his mother had taught him were forgotten long ago. As well, he had no intention of making his future executioner comfortable.

The man was unmistakable. The bored guards never let him forget it, whether it was drunken slurs about strangled rebels or wary whispers of a catlike man who prowled the palace. Rumors also scurried that he was the Khanum's bedwarmer and had his pick of any virgin in the Shah's seraglio. Hence Hafaza was unable to do anything but stare as the man one day entered his cell.

It was not his day to die, he knew that. No one had given him his final meal, the telltale sign that the Reaper was near. Hafaza knew more prisons than this one and all carried the same twisted tradition.

But instead, here the executioner stood. _He can't be any taller than me._ And the man asked his name. Of course Hafaza threw out a line, careful to see who the man was.

He waved his arm like a fawning courtier, welcoming the executioner into his home of filth and dankness. The jolting pain caused him to hiss aloud. His hand snapped to his shoulder as a narrow fire coursed through the muscle. The executioner swept forward, blocking out the doorway of light. With little concern he took his arm. Hafaza jerked it back and drove his teeth into his lip to keep from yelping.

"Let me see it."

_That voice..._ Hafaza's hand dropped while he eyed the executioner with a mix of rancor and fascination. He knew he had not meant to pull his hand away. Now he was stuck, caught in a pillar of darkness caused by the man's cape and the soggy wall at his back. Vaguely he wondered if this was a dress rehearsal for hell. Yet hell did not possess such odd demons.

His executioner spoke with a voice like honey. Now he pulled up his sleeve, not unkindly, and inspected the soaked bandages slapped onto his shoulder. An instant later the bandage was off and a cold salve filled the wound.

"Who are you?"

At the sound of Hafaza's voice the man stepped back, regarding him with odd eyes.

"I am Erik," he said after a moment. "And yourself? Surely you must have some birth name."

The short second in thinking could have passed for a truthful answer. "Pierre Armand. Why do you care?"

"Because…I have not encountered someone from my country in years."

Hafaza allowed his shoulders to roll despite the pain.

"Tcha." The man seemed to like his flippantness. He saw no reason to stop. "I have not seen France since I was sixteen."

The executioner laughed, a thrilling sound of indigo meadows and balmy snows. "Neither have I."

Hafaza remained immobile. The voice the man possessed…soothing and inviting—but repulsive for its unearthly beauty. Erik turned back to the shadow of a guard outside the doorway.

"Get me a chair then leave us."

Whether the guard balked at such a demeaning was unknown. The chair was hurried over. Once the executioner was comfortably seated among the dripping walls and stained floor he looked back at Hafaza.

"You do not look like a fanatical rebel."

"You do not look like an executioner."

The man's arms went from his lap to the arms of the chair. Hafaza wondered if he had pushed himself too far this time.

"I'm not a rebel," he began again, putting a dash of wronged melancholy into his voice. "I'm a thief, but only to survive."

"I thought as much. A French radical in Persia would be a stranger sight than this country is ready for. Thief or radical, you would end up in the same cell, unfortunately."

Hafaza looked up and caught his eyes. The mask made it hard to gauge his reactions.

"I did not plan to come to this horrid country. Did you?"

The man did not lean forward but something about his posture, the tilt of his shoulders maybe, made his interest clear.

"There were many deviations between here and France."

Of course a million plots ran through his mind—he was a thief condemned to death! He allowed himself a resigned sigh. Perhaps he was religious and had the belief that God would intervene and save him. Or he had given up on life long ago and no longer cared where he went. Hafaza did not care which the man thought, if he presumed. They always presumed.

"All roads lead to Persia, eh? I might have had a thrill or two before ending up here."

"Tell me." Came the inexplicably soft yet powerful voice.

He wanted a story! Hafaza bit back a laugh. _Arabian Nights?_ If that was what the executioner wanted, he would tell him a story that would have saved the wife in one night. Arrogance perhaps, but he had always been so, and he was still alive. The uncertainty of the latter pushed him on all the more.

"I left France through Switzerland. That was where things got interesting."

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"I do not think I talked so much in an hour. Saints, it is a wonder my voice did not break."

Her teacher had dropped any trace of professional formality. His legs curled beneath him on the sofa as he spoke on and on. Christine had no idea what hafaza was. But there was no stopping. Feeling aboard the carriage to hell, she could only sit as the tale careened down dark roads and murderous passes.

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"And that is why I know this—never trust a noblewoman. She'll play and take her sport and give you a hat with a feather if you are lucky, or if she is especially pleased, a horse. But the moment she grows bored, watch her choose a new game of watching her husband take down his rifle.

"I left Switzerland after that but Margrit ensured my stay had its excitement. A pity the last part of that excitement was fleeing through woods on horseback with a couple of wolfhounds close behind."

Hafaza shook his head and allowed his jaw a moment to rest. It was a lie, a feathered, harrowing lie. The wolfhounds were true, and the woman's name might have been Margrit. It was not her bored heart but her diamond necklace he had stolen, and badly too. It served the shrew right, after suggesting he join _l'Opéra des Vaches_. He only hoped her husband had throttled her before she could explain the jewel was stolen. Fleeing Zürich on foot with a wolfhound or two in pursuit had not been his finest moment.

"Barely believable, but interesting," the executioner said, his voice lyrical and amused.

The man sat like a contented leopard that preferred not to think where its next meal was coming from. A meal seemed a foreign concept to the man though. All the blacks he wore could not hide how his hips jabbed out from his sides or how his hands would have been gnarled had he been older. Though much to Hafaza's disquiet, he was beginning to resemble the emaciated man. Prison food's revolting taste and scant quantity was coupled with no room for anything but pacing.

"Austria wasn't as interesting, until I got a glimpse of Empress Sissi. But that was only a glance. The main time that I recall was the horserace in Graz. I make no claims to be a horseman but God delights in tormenting me…"

So it went. He wove and painted tapestries and pictures of a life he never led. For days he stretched out his years as an unproductive scoundrel. Erik never claimed to believe them. But that did not matter. The man was amused. He would laugh occasionally, in an edged sound unfitting with his sonorous voice. In return he would share a story or two of his own that seemed too rife with tragedy to be fairytales. As well he would usually bring something with him: a cup of wine, a salve for wounds, little trinkets, and all useless. Hafaza was beginning to feel like one of the fabled whores in the Shah's harem.

He wondered if Erik knew. He wondered if Erik ever thought that despite all his baubles and politeness he merely fattened a duck for Christmas.

It had been yesterday. His executioner nodded and ventured a tale of his own. He was a morbid man, Hafaza had discovered, always brooding behind that honeyed voice and half-smile.

This day though something had stolen the smile from his face and his eyes rarely moved from the wall above Hafaza's head.

"Was your day difficult?"

"Persia is always difficult. The court writhes with snakes, all venomous in some way."

He was a good concealer. Anyone could have assumed the corruption that had seeped into Persia gave him cause for his commonplace bouts of passive moodiness. But Hafaza ran with thieves and whores and murderers. He knew a concealed truth.

"Is that all? You seem so distressed by a common fact."

The executioner looked up and met his gaze.

"I asked the Shah about your comrades."

"Pah, they were not friends."

"Four are dead," he said slowly. "One more awaits execution. That one was tortured, choking out that he has forever been a highwayman. A murderer or mugger though, it makes no difference. The Shah wants you all executed."

"Fantastic."

His executioner continued to frown. "I wish there was a way..."

"Whatever," Hafaza growled. "Not everyone can have a Shah's ear."

Erik left then.

When he was alone, Hafaza slumped on his stool. A moment later he stood, walked several feet, and collapsed into the chair. Erik had not bothered to remove it and it was marginally more comfortable than the wobbly stool.

"_I wish there was a way..."_

Fuck that. Erik had little care other than losing an interesting book. Books burned, so would Hafaza. But he would not burn. No, he already burned, from inside. The hatred he had known for Mirza paled—no, withered—in comparison to the fury he felt now.

"_Salope_," he hissed.

The executioner lied and laughed every day, every day until his doom. Hafaza's breath came ragged now. The plans he had made were ruined. His shoulder hurt. Springing from the chair, he landed on his hands and haunches, swearing when his shoulder pulled against its bindings.

The wall of the cell was covered in crumbling bricks. Surely, the water that dripped between them and their cracked condition… He ran a hand along the wall. The weeks spent in captivity had made his eyes used to the darkness but even without it he would have found what he looked for.

Several minutes later he found just that. A brick wiggled when he touched it, like a tooth almost ready to come out. He wedged a finger between the cracks and tested it. Loose, somewhat.

He pried harder. It gave a little.

His evening, or morning or afternoon, he didn't know, was spent prying and wiggling and grinding his nails down to the quick. The blood that soon came from his fingers made the task even harder.

_A brick for my life! _

Hafaza was a determined and desperate man. A little blood? There were worse things.


	3. Caged Foxes

**Kitsune**

--

_**Part III – Caged Foxes**_

The next day, Hafaza sprawled across the floor of the cell. His skin gleamed with sick-sweat and his eyes stared up unblinking. He shivered for an hour, and then gasped at the heat for the next. And he groaned. Groans that refused to let the guards rest, that started low and ended in strangled howls.

Sometimes, a guard snarled to shut up. Hafaza would always reply with a gag and whimper.

"My arm! It rots on me!" he shrieked betimes.

Occasionally a guard would peer into the cell, meeting his corpselike eyes. In the darkness he would see an open wound at his shoulder. The stench of filth overpowered the sick-sweet smell of infection.

But the guards of Tehran were not fools. No one opened his door to inspect him. It was a grand opportunity for a jailbreak. Or it might be catching.

His agony, and therefore the guards', continued through the night, and into the hazy morning.

And then another form, taller than the others, twisted a key through a bolt.

"Pretending to be sick is old as the hills, fool. It won't save you." That mellifluous timbre carried a clip.

Hafaza rolled onto his back, arms spread.

"Couldn't stand to slaughter me like a cow, so you poison me instead?"

Annoyance. Hafaza could see the cords in the man's neck tensing above his high collar. He slithered backward, looking up with the malice of one powerless, one who forces every ounce of threat into his eyes. And he pressed further.

"That shit you spread on my arm. It eats me! God, if someone would cut it off I'd sing their praises."



Confusion. Indignation. So corrosive. He had guessed correctly.

--

"You see Christine, beneath the pretty voice and dilly-dallying gestures of mercy, Erik was an arrogant bastard. The arrogance of one with a deformity or aberration—the grinding demand for all to bow their necks that this wretched creature rose above his wretched beginnings and became someone. And, I suppose, if one loves himself more than all others, he will not hurt so much when the cheapest two-sou whore scrambles away in revulsion."

He laughed, but it was soft and far away, a jest at a long-forgotten time.

"That was Erik, I had guessed. You have to learn these things when you want to trick people."

He sighed, stretching out further on the sofa. He looked every bit a contented cat, dangling a mouse from its teeth.

"I love arrogant people, Christine. Oh, not to imply you are in any way arrogant, cherie, you are in fact an image of modesty. But arrogant people capture my heart for one reason—they so easily let me capture theirs."

--

For one moment, Erik was more idiotic than all the guards in Tehran. He opened the cell, the hinges grinding through the rust. Hafaza tried to scramble to his feet and fend him off, trying to recapture one small shred of dignity before he died of septic or the sword. But oh, he was too weak, so it seemed. As he collapsed back to the slick floor, his good arm slipped from under him, sliding into the darkness of the cell's corner. A prone, twitching sheep he was.

Erik kneeled in front of him, reeking of incense. A single spiderlike hand reached out to the injury, the other hidden under the cloak. Did this bastard think he was going to nurse him back to health then kill him?

"Stay away," Hafaza croaked, pushing every tremble in his tired body into his voice.

One hand clutched the brick as the other flopped and brought yelps from the dying prisoner. He was dying, and ever-clever Erik could not see why as he finally clamped down on his injured arm. Neither did he see the brick smashing into his temple.

Except he did.

Goddamn the cat-quick man. Erik jerked back, trying to shove him away as he swung the brick from his awkward position on the floor. But Hafaza was quick too. The brick did 

not crunch into his temple, knocking him senseless. But it did crack against his brow, and Erik half-spun before crashing to the ground.

"_Stop_."

Goddamn it, he almost did, as that siren song assaulted his ears. Erik's other hand was sliding from his cloak, pulling out a gun or knife. Thank the gods; it snapped him out of his split reverie. The brick came down again, this time square into the thinnest part of his skull. And he did it again. And once more just to make sure those fickle gods knew damn well he was killing.

It seemed to work. The masked man didn't move, didn't gag with a bloody mouth or snarl curses. Placing two fingers to his throat, Hafaza felt no pulse. _Victory. The triumph of man over arrogant bastard._

Well then, time to get started. Time to be free.

First he removed the dark mask, and even Hafaza, survivor of brawls and mingler with all manner of thugs and pox-ridden whores, had to fight back a yelp. A scar or burn had seemed the most likely reason for the mask. He had not thought the man's whole face was rotted off.

_A leper?_

He checked Erik's spider-hands but did not see any missing fingers.

Putting that mask on revolted him more than the time he had to escape Vienna through the sewers. The stench of death swamped his nose. The leather against his face—bile burned his throat—felt coated in half-dried fluid.

Footsteps pattered at the edges of his hearing.

Hafaza jerked up. _Merde._ Guards. He had hoped for more time, or better yet, no guards at all. He guessed them no more than a minute away. Even then…damn damn damn.

His plans, fevered and desperate, had not made all allowances. That voice of the dead bastard's—Hafaza had a talent for mimicry, but he'd sooner be able to fly away from Tehran than copy that devil's unearthly voice. With practice, perhaps something close, but not in a minute.

He grabbed the corpse's arm. He knew he'd seen him pluck at it, the common telltale—

Aha, a knife.

The guards' footsteps echoed louder. Erik's twisted mouth seemed to smile. Yes, he knew what he had to do.

A little blood? There were worse things.

Closing his eyes might have steadied his nerves, but that would hardly have helped. He sucked in a breath. And slit his throat.


	4. A Gilded Cage

_**Part IV – A Gilded Cage**_

"Oh ho!" He looked at her with eyes brimming in far-flung merriment. "Thought I was done there, Christine?" He laughed. "That would mean I'm ghost. Think Christine, what if a ghost has been making you an opera prima donna all this time?"

"You were supposed to be an angel," she said.

Christine realized she had spoken aloud, and fear made her look back into his pale brown eyes. They returned to the room from their Mazandaran memories, meeting hers with mirrors of hard glass that soon softened. Why had she ever thought they were golden?

"Angels do not all come from heaven, you know. Your guardian angel, Christine—I daresay she is a forest sylph that springs behind the nearest candle or tea cup whenever you turn around."

His voice continued, feathering on the ends of each syllable. She felt it again, as she had so many times before. It was a sinking feeling, like she was sliding into honey, slowed and increasingly serene. His saccharine, gentle voice reminded her of the traps that farmers hung to trap flies, insects lulled to desirous lethargy that trapped themselves in wing-soaking sweetness.

'Twas best not to make him angry. He looked so happy to be sharing his story with her. He took her hand with every bit of gentleness, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

"I am no ghost, I promise. But I became an angel in Tehran. Not a very nice one though."

He was not in the room entirely anymore, but somewhere between here and Persia. His voice was a low whisper, one she heard most at graveyards. The thumb against her knuckles continued to stroke absently.

"I am loath to tell you this, Christine. Yet I am even more loath to lie to you. The more years go by that I lie and carry on with this façade, the more I want to tell the truth. In Tehran, I was an angel of death."

--

Steel burned across his throat, making him gasp, which only made the blood flow more. Of course it wasn't suicide. It did not go deep. But it poured over his filthy shirt.

His task for Erik sweetened the sacrifice though. The gash at his temple coated his face in blood, but the monstrosity of Erik's visage would need more than that to pull off this Gothic romance novel trick.

He relished that knife ripping through Erik's terrible flesh. Time limited him to only a few cuts, but soon the bastard's own pet dog would not recognize him.

The corpse's cloak was just shrugged into place when the guards arrived. Erik, on his first outing, twisted toward the door and injected his voice with every ounce of cold fury. Choked and rasping, of course.

"Were you all off drinking when this wretch attacked me?"

Stepping full into the light, he lowered his hand from this throat. He'd pushed the collar own, revealing the cut in all of its accusing glory. Instantly the guards were pushing through.

Fish Breath and Squint Eyes—he recognized them from his time in the cells. They were not the most wary of them. He snapped up a bloody hand. It was a good show; the blood dripped from his fingertips, plinking onto the stone floor.

"Stay, I dealt with it. And I'll live." He rose to his feet.

The guards backed up, lowering their rifles to their sides. Erik took his leave, sweeping through the doorway with a flourish he had seen the masked man use. _Vain, arrogant fool._

Now to find the stables. He'd seen several horses on lead lines when the cart first rolled into the prison yard. It could not be too far. The staid thud of boots behind him made him realize a guard had followed. Fish Breath.

"Would Sir like some water before the execution?"

It took everything in him not to reply "What execution?"

Of course the dead man's duties must have kept him very busy, what with all the poor thieves looking for a way to buy a meal. And he knew from the guards that these executions were closer to gladiatorial combat. They were only executions because Erik never lost.

"With my trachea half cut out? Death will have to wait."

No, that wasn't right. It was closer to what Erik would say, but not quite.

The guard paused. "Sir, with every respect, the Shah does not permit the condemned to go unpunished except for sacred days."

"Then hold it until the late afternoon."

"Sir, it _is_ the late afternoon."

God, he had lost track of the sun. Hell, he'd lost track of common sense. The light from the doorway ahead was too harsh to be late-morning. And worse yet, he could see the curious twist to the guard's eyebrows. Curiosity an inch away from outright suspicion.

"It's only that brigand," Fish Breath said.

Just one. Just one tortured, half-dead brigand. Just one trained, armed, already suspicious guard. He could run for it and try to find the stables with Tehran's forces chasing after him. Or he could be practical.

"The Shah must be appeased. Get me a sword."

"What?"

"A sword, so I can kill him."

The guard was staring at him. This time, Erik had no idea why. The dead man looked like a fencer, even bone-thin as he was. And there were no guns on him.

He was forced to guess, and that was closing in on disaster.

"One can't have the same trick every time," he added.

Finally Fish Breath nodded. "Of course, will a guard's sword be sufficient?"

"Quite."

Clearly they were behind schedule, for the guard unbuckled his own sword and handed it to him. It had a decent weight and balance. The guard's curiosity remained, but Erik remembered the guard as too lazy to do more than his salary required.

"To the arena, then."

Now Erik saw why the guard had chased after him. The arena was in the opposite direction.

As it turned out, the arena was attached to the prison. There was an antechamber that opened up to the arena via a wide stone frame. Four iron rods separated the room from the field. Damned if he could see anything further. He could not even look at the frame— it was a portal of impenetrable light. The cells had weakened his eyes.

Another guard approached, one with a beard grotesquely knotted with sweat. Erik had never seen him before.

"Ready, Sir?

Answering with a nod, he watched as the guard twisted a wheel fixed on the wall.

The bars retracted with a metallic groan. Wondering if he was about to do the stupidest thing in his life, which would have much competition, he stepped through the eye-melting portal of light.

He could see again, though the world looked far too stark and bright. Before him, Erik could make out a wide space of packed earth, and raised stands on the other side. Directly across was a covered stand higher than the others and far better furnished. Though it hurt his eyes to look higher, he thought there were several people seated in it. On either side were a handful of spectators. _A single thief must not be high entertainment in Tehran_, he thought.

His thief stood in the middle of the field, a sword in one hand and a sleeve ripped off to make a cheap vambrance that wrapped around his opposite forearm. Erik almost laughed. Mirza had always ridden proud and leopard-like, quick to laugh and quick to claw. Damn Mirza with his wolfish teeth and glinting dark eyes. Now his jowls sagged at the corners while red and yellow rimmed his eyes.

There was no starting bell or call to arms. Hot wind lolled across the ground, and Erik did what he had wanted to do for months. He stabbed Mirza straight in the eyes. It was a split second before he realized that Mirza also lunged forward, knocking the sword aside with his cloth vambrance and thrusting with his own weapon.

Erik wheeled sideways, the blade sliding past. He barely blocked the next slash. When had Mirza ever been so agile?

He snapped away, his own sword sweeping back, his mind racing with too many "oh fuck's" to think. The ground swayed under his legs, still weak from the cells. By rights Mirza's would as well, but the bastard was defiant to the end. His eyes, rimmed like a sick owl's, had no trace of careless malice or cruel humor. Only determination. Mirza thrusted again, and Erik very nearly lost his ability to reproduce.

Among all the flurry and desperation, he saw, to his dawning, depressing realization, that the brigand was a far superior swordsman. The deadly kind who were precisely bad because they never revealed their hand. _Bad, bad! _Why was he such an idiot as to step into a ring with a highwayman? He should have taken his chances with Fish Breath.

_Think, damn you!_ He blocked another slash and parried a snappy thrust. He was a competent swordsman, not a talented one. But he could fight dirty. He was not all Erik, all poise and haughty propriety.

He dodged around a slash, stepping in close, past Mirza's sword arm. It was too close to use his sword. Not too close to use his fists. He punched him straight in the windpipe. It 

was a favorite trick of his. Weakened as he was, he still felt his knuckles grind into the bastard's trachea. Too weak to crush it though.

Still, Mirza gagged, whipping the sword up to give himself room. For the first time, he met his eyes.

"_Khareji?_"

It was Erik's turn to gag. He had no idea if the brigand would howl out his identity to save himself. Even more reason to end this. Mirza wanted to end it more quickly.

Mirza lunged, not with a sword but with his own fist, and drove it into his bad shoulder. Something gave. Something popped. An acrid taste bit his tongue as stars spangled across his eyes. Fire lanced up and down his arm and into his neck. He didn't think the bastard had stuck around long enough to see him shot.

When the brigand lunged again, this time with his sword, there was nothing to do but go forward. He came almost chest to chest, his heel hooking around Mirza's. There was a hiss at his side and something parted. The brigand tried to push back, but finally he miss-stepped. He tripped over the foot behind his, reeling backwards.

_Crunch. _

The blade cored Mirza's throat like an apple. An arc of blood might have been more picaresque, but barely any trickled from around the sword. Erik left it in him, turned, and walked from the field.

The bars grinded back to admit him through. He retreated into the antechamber. It was black as pitch inside, soothing as warm milk. Of course the light soon brightened. Murmuring indiscernibly, guards stepped back as he walked past. Gliding might have suited resembled Erik better, but he was too battered to do more than maintain a stately pace. Once the guards were behind him, he clutched his side with one hand and leaned against the wall with other. In five strides he was on his knees, slumped against an empty cell's door. A heart that had received little exercise in the past few weeks throbbed in his chest. The prison cells faded on the edge of his vision. He wanted to vomit.

"Damn you Erik, I had not thought you were hurt this bad. Why did you toy with a sword? "

An unstriking man had kneeled down in front of him. He looked perfectly at ease with the cells. More so, he looked perfectly at ease beside him, something Erik had seen little of, even with guards armed with rifles. From the back of his fading mind, he recalled the dead man complaining of a daroga in a tone that belied any rancor.

Something else the dead man had mentioned floated back to him. A spoiled brat of a shah, a sadistic mother of one.

Erik met the man's gaze. "The same trick soon becomes dull. Better to fight a half-dead thief than a trained deserter."

The daroga scarce heard him. His green eyes were even wider than Fish Breath's had been when he'd asked for a sword.

"Your _voice_. I saw him get you in the ribs, when did he catch your throat? Damn it, if he got your windpipe you'll bleed to death."

"Hush." He'd seen Erik whisperingly snap that to guards who spoke too loud. It seemed a decent enough retort to one who seemed a friend. "I'm fine, help me up."

The man was still fish-eyed.

"I'll get you to your apartments, and get a doctor to look at you."

_Now to find the stables…_

It was nauseating to think about but it was true. Blood seeped between his fingers and still dripped from his throat. He had not cut into the windpipe, but it was a deeper wound than he'd intended to make. Curse his nerves, and curse Erik to every hell that would take him. Not to mention his throbbing shoulder and a warm trickle down his arm. Yes, it was nauseating, but he knew he'd fall off a children's pony if he tried to ride.

_More time caged then…_he really did feel about to vomit. Or faint. Or both, which would prove his karma had finally caught up with him.

It seemed there was no denying those apartments. But only that.

"No doctors. Just get me to the apartments."

At last, thank the dead man for something—the daroga looked frustrated, but he didn't argue. Instead he held out a hand. Erik took it, closing his eyes as the floor tilted and ran like a river.

"It's good to see you've put on some weight, at least."

Panic—just a flutter down his throat, before his better senses caught up. Even after weeks of godawful prison food, he had not become an emaciated ghoul. He supposed that was better. That could always be shrugged off.

He put on every air of weary annoyance, hardly needing to pretend.

"You are calling me fat, daroga? Be thankful I am not a woman."

The man gave a deep throated chuckle, probably happier to see that he had not keeled over. Though Erik despised dependence, it was only because of the man's offered shoulder that they made it to the apartments.

He entered heaven.

Perhaps he had bled to death on the walk over, and word had not reached any higher power yet that he'd just bashed a man's brains in and skewered another.

Delicious cool air wafted over him as a small figure opened the door. He'd forgotten that the world was not an oven.

"Sir?" It was the man who opened the door.

"Get some bandages," the daroga answered.

The man scurried off. He had a servant? The dead man had failed to mention that. Indeed, he had failed to mention many things.

The daroga led him into a den, over a rug that felt half a foot thick. There was a white sofa, covered in fat pillows. Erik felt him pause. Nothing was keeping him off of that sofa. Shrugging himself off of the daroga, he lurched the last few steps and collapsed onto the soft cushions. _Glorious._

God, he had not felt anything so wonderful since that Venetian noblewoman and her bored, decadent hospitality.

"Thank you," he croaked. "I'll be fine now. Unless the Shah of Shahs has found another highway thief?"

The man blinked. It was a quick one—Erik doubted the man was still even thinking about it. But something he had said was faulty.

Thankfully, the servant returned, in such great speed Erik wondered if the dead man was a clumsy idiot.

"I'm sure you have duties to attend to."

If the daroga noticed it was a push and a prod, he gave no response. He only wished him well and left. _Erik must have accustomed him to abrupt departures._ That was useful. Hopefully it applied to everyone.

Then he noticed the grave-quiet servant still stood there, bandages and a jug of water in hand. Servants gossiped. Why else had that Venetian minx had to sneak him out of her manse?

"Leave it be. But killing thieves has left me starving. I shall have my dinner early."

He saw the surprise. Erik saw no reason why—every noble he'd ever known had thought nothing of ordering a meal. Whatever the cause, the man nodded, set down the jug and bandages, and left once more.

Alone, he quickly shed the cloak, followed by his waistcoat and shirt. All of it was black, of course. _Dour, angsty fellow._

Dourer was his flesh. Mirza had gotten two good ones in. The cut at his side was right along a rib and hurt like the clap at every movement, while his healing shoulder was ripped open afresh. Hopefully, neither would need stitches. He was dreadful at needlepoint.

From a cell to a suite, through a trial by swords. Funny how things fell. Not half so funny was that he was a murdering, convicted thief now bedding in the Shah's palace. And the body was still lying in his filthy prison.

Erik groaned. One cage for another? Yet even then, this morning he had been condemned to die. Now he was sprawled on feather-stuffed pillows, awaiting a meal from the Shah's own kitchens. It was not altogether unpleasant.

--

A smile played on his lips. He looked almost sleepy. But he never let go of her hand.

"I never knew what brought Erik to Persia. It wasn't the food, I promise you. Of a surety he had gold and silk, anything he could have bought. But I doubt he cared. I will never know why Erik came to Persia. Yet I can guess. _Power_, Christine. The authority to order around a servant is one thing, but the authority to condemn a prince to exile, or hold the ear of a Shah…that, Christine, is why men become drunk on it.

"But power is a minx, a creature that takes the guise of a whore exactly when one is penniless. Does power corrupt? I have no idea. But it leads all on a merry chase."


End file.
